


I am loving losing life

by Over_the_moon



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton's Backstory, Deaf Clint Barton, Former Circus Performer Clint Barton, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23555251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Over_the_moon/pseuds/Over_the_moon
Summary: Clint's brother has returned in a stunning display of bad timing.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Avengers Team
Comments: 18
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

It was December eighteenth, on a slow and uneventful Thursday afternoon. Tony and Clint were sat at the center of a rat’s nest of holiday paraphernalia. Tony, crouched primly on the balls of his feet with his blazer hanging open, and Clint, sockless and leaning against the leg of a sagging armchair. 

“That’s it, I’m cutting the green wire.” Clint brandished a pair of safety scissors he’d excavated from some forgotten corner of his apartment. 

“No, no, patience.” Tony held up a hand as he picked at the hopelessly tangled string of Christmas lights. “This just requires a little bit of reverse engineering,” he muttered before flinching. “Dang it, Barton! I think I chipped a nail.” 

Then he smiled at him evilly. “Kiss it better?” 

Clint snorted. “Maybe if you actually help me sort out this mess, like I called you for. Who’s supposed to be the tech-industry genius in this equation again?” He glanced around as though he might find guidance in the mismatched, thrifted furniture, the cardboard boxes of CDs and laserdiscs. “Lucky?”

At the sound of his name, Lucky looked up with a single large, wet eye and wagged his tail slowly. 

“Nice poochie,” Tony said. “Oh, and quick engineering lesson 101, if you cut a wire, electricity can’t travel all the way through it. Ergo, no pretty glowing colors.” 

“Right.” A wave of helplessness washed over Clint and he scratched his chin, feeling stuffy. There was a wrench in his lap but he couldn’t remember how it got there. Why would he need a wrench anyway? It was completely useless. Useless like the damn lights and plastic bobbles with garish red paint chipping off their faces, and the stupid fake tree propped up in all it’s naked glory. 

Something in Tony’s face softened and he stood up straight with a groan. “So, I’ve decided.”

Clint looked at him in bemusement.

Tony cleared his throat. “You are hereby cordially invited to spend the winter holidays at Stark Tower, effective immediately. Etc, etc.” 

“Really?” 

Tony attempted to look nonchalant. “Yeah, we could get the rest of the gang together, the whole shebang. It’ll be fun.” Then he added, “But only if you promise to throw all this shit in a dumpster and burn it. I’ll buy you new stuff. My treat.” He pat Clint’s back consolitarily. 

Something hot like indignation attempted to fight its way out of Clint’s chest. “You don’t have to do that. I --- I have money now.” 

Tony stared down at him meaningfully for a long beat. “I know that. Just, think about it.” 

*

Another wasted day came and went. Clint situated himself as comfortably as possible on the far-end of the couch with a pack of beers. Tossed a knitted throw over his bare legs. Generally tried to avoid catching a glimpse of the open suitcase next to him. He knew it wasn’t fair to resent Kate for --- what, for having her own life? The kid had made herself an essential of his own life far too easily, of no one’s fault but his own. Clint sighed and flicked the top of the suitcase closed. It failed to conceal all of its bulging contents --- a wrinkled wad of clothing, cumbersome hardbacks on private investigation, an extra collapsible recurve bow. He gingerly nudged an errant bra out of sight. 

A ringing phone cut through his thoughts. Clint paused, the lid of the can halfway to his lips. He was rooted to the floor, dead on his feet. Lucky groaned.

“I know, I know, old boy.” Clint struggled out of the person shaped mold of the couch, contrary to what he really wanted to do, which was to just let the musty stuffing swallow him up again.

He stumbled across the floor to the landline.

“Hullo? I think I’m kinda drunk right now, so whatever I did... go easy on me.” 

There was a charged silence on the other end. Then a crackle as his caller inhaled.

“How’d you like to lend a hand to a fellow American down on his luck?”

“Barney fucking Barton.” 

“The one and only.” 

Clint swallowed convulsively in disbelief. It took only a second for his resolve to harden. “What do you want.” 

“Price of a cuppa coffee. A place for this here desperado to lay his sorry head.” 

“You’re sorry, huh.” 

“Yes,” Barney said sincerely. “I’m really sorry. And cold. I’d come up by myself, but, well.” He laughed self-deprecatingly. “I’ve gone and done a banged up job of taking care of myself while you were off saving the world. I can’t move my legs.” 

*

Barney was waiting outside the apartment complex in a wheelchair, a meagre messenger bag sitting on his legs. He shivered miserably in a threadbare, overlarge olive suit. 

Clint stopped on the stoop, took in the sight of the brother he hadn’t seen hide or hair of in years. 

The old, rough memories resurfaced unbidden. 

“How did you get here?” He asked dumbly. 

“Took a taxi. The driver helped me out. The chair, it-it folds.” 

Clint was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was pantless in the middle of the street, exposed to the elements of a New York winter. It only served to make him more irate. 

“Looks like you’re going to be out here for a while, buddy. The shift change is on.” He leaned in close to Barney’s defeated, battered face. “I don’t care if people think I’m an asshole for leaving some disabled guy high and dry.” 

Barney’s hand shot up and twisted in the front of Clint’s shirt. His eyes burned. Clint reared back instinctively. 

“What the hell-?”

“You look like you want to punch the everliving daylight out of me. Fine. Go for it. How long d’you need? One minute? Two?” 

His breath puffed out like smoke between them. Clint glared at Barney mulishly, but didn’t gain any satisfaction from it. He felt like an immature child. But then Barney had always had that effect on him. He was so tired.

He shook his head and stepped around behind Barney to grab the wheelchair handles. It sluiced through the grey slush that had been present since December. No proper Hollywood snow, just a shadow of its futile attempt to stick to the unforgiving city pavement. He had Barney face the door and hauled him up the stairs backwards, each bumping step at a time. 

“The only reason I’m letting you in is because I don’t want my neighbors getting scared. You look like a mafia man.” 

Barney hummed and leaned his head back to look up at Clint. “S’close enough.” 

Clint struggled with unsticking his apartment door. 

“Home sweet home. Come inside and say hi to Lucky.” 

“That’s a stripper name,” Barney said idly. He rolled in carefully to avoid all of Clint’s hoarded detritus. “I’m seeing a lot of purple here, Clint.” 

“Yeah? Beggars can’t be choosers. And Lucky’s my _dog_ , man.” 

As if on cue Lucky trotted over and sniffed at Barney’s shoe, whining when his sandy head was scratched between Barney’s two hands, the traitor. 

Clint went ahead to the couch, attempting to casually abscond with the empty beer cans. He looked around for a suitable heap to hide them under but ended up circling around like a confused pigeon. 

“I’d kill for a beer,” Barney said without looking up. His face was half-shadowed, inscrutable. 

They situated themselves in front of the barren artificial tree. Barney popped the tab on his beer while Clint stretched out on the floor with his half-drunk one. Still nothing was said about his apparent lack of pants. 

Barney shifted and ran his fingers through his brown fringe. “Look, I wouldn’t bother you unless I was in a serious spot of trouble. Truth is, I did some… dubious work. Had a lucrative racketeering gig going on and everything. Things were shaping up for me.” 

“And then shit hit the fan?”

Barney peered at his face searchingly, possibly for some hint of sarcasm. His jaw tightened and he nodded. “Shit hit the fan.” 

Clint took a sour swig and leaned back on his elbows. “And here I was thinking you’d gone down the straight path, after you got your GED. Reckoned you’d be a P.E. teacher by now or something.” 

“Oh, shut up.” Barney yawned. “Hey.” 

“What,” he answered irritably. 

“We’re all cripples here.” 

Clint blinked and focused blearily first on the wheelchair, then on Lucky’s single eye. And then he brushed a finger over one of the hearing aids hooked over the backs of his ears. 

“Hah. Funny.” 

He needed a change of scene. Maybe take Stark up on that offer. 

*

Clint had gotten so used to entering Stark Tower by airpad that simply walking in through its massive sliding doors was surreal. The main floor’s entrance had the appearance of a very high class hotel, complete with a pleasantly cool lobby bustling with activity, abstract stabiles hanging from the ceiling, and sleek steel and glass structures. By the elevators was a fluorescently-lit water wall, the trickle of which added to the white noise of activity. 

Getting in the cabin was tricky. 

“I can push myself,” Barney insisted. “It’s my legs that don’t work, not my arms.”

“I know that, dummy.” Clint whistled sharply to dissuade Lucky from wandering off. Clint’s attempt to leash him that morning had only resulted in a frantic dash for freedom, so he’d left it alone. Lucky slunk in guiltily with them just as the doors closed. “Good boy! Here, you be the pack mule.” 

Barney grunted when both duffels were dropped summarily into his lap. “Place doesn’t exactly register as a superhero’s sanctum.” 

He caught Clint’s eye in their reflection on the inside wall of the elevator. It was hard to reconcile the image they made, side-by-side, to the yawning void in Clint’s life ever since adolescence. He had to remind himself that this fragile truce, with the small talk and pointed lack of touching, could be nothing more than temporary. Barney, being the survivor he was, would stubbornly rend his personal effects back into some semblance of order. He would no longer have a need for Clint then; he would no longer be compelled to stay. 

One betrayal was enough to last Clint for a lifetime. 

“Nah. The lower levels are for Tony’s subsidiaries, charity work, stuff like that.” He tore his eyes away from Barney’s probing ones. The lift opened with a ding and he stepped out resolutely. 

“C’mon and meet the team.” 

Stepping out revealed a spacious grey-scale relaxation area with modern wing back chairs and a marble-countered kitchenette. Some tightness in Clint’s shoulders loosened. Entering this space was like falling back into the old routine of soporific celebration after a successful mission. He didn’t have to think anymore. It wasn’t his place to. 

Currently two of the chairs were occupied by Tony and Bruce, who was nursing a steaming cup of tea contentedly. 

Natasha inspected various ingredients laid out over the entire surface of the counter critically. 

Steve, sitting in a high-stool, had managed to carve out some of the space for himself and his sketchbook. 

“Hey guys,” Clint hedged. Four heads raised at once. He scuffed his feet on the shiny waxed floor. 

“This is my brother, Barney. And this is my dog.” 

For a stomach flipping beat he considered that he might’ve misunderstood Tony’s words two days ago. Maybe he’d simply extended an offhanded offer for propriety’s sake, one that was expected to be modestly refused. It was difficult to tell what was serious or not, with Tony. 

Then the moment passed, and everything seemed to slide into its right place. 

“Clint, good, you’re here.” That was Tony. “Banner and I were just having a very intellectually stimulating conversation about the merits of using Cannabis sativa indica to help the green one reach an altered state of consciousness.” 

Bruce was already shaking his head vigorously and pointed his glasses at him. “No, Tony. I am not getting high for one of your pet projects.” 

“How much weed do you think it would take?” Natasha turned with a metal bowl in her arms and stirred its contents. “Hey Clint. I’m making eggnog.” 

“Please don’t use up all my spices,” Bruce said a little weakly. 

Everything was so picturesque Clint had the irrational urge to turn to Barney and shake him by the shoulders, to rail at him and question why he had to come back now, and ruin Clint’s resolution to enjoy Christmas just _one fucking time_. 

Steve, ever the leader, stood swiftly and reached out a hand to Barney. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Steve.” 

Barney’s eyes grew wide as his gaze traveled up the muscled arm to Steve’s cocked eyebrow and chiseled jaw. His stature, which would be imposing to anyone else, lent him the impression of towering over Barney’s chair-bound figure. He stuck his own hand out and shook it firmly.

“Likewise. I-it’s a bit strange not seeing you on a television screen, if you don’t mind me saying so.” 

Clint would be a hypocrite to not feel empathy in that moment. It was the same overwhelming sensation that took hold each time Coulson called for the team to assemble against some intergalactic threat or power hungry megalomaniac. A distinct, slow-growth realization that he was terribly out of his depth. Some days it was all Clint could do but lean against a wall and attempt to catch his breath. He’d rushed into the locker, on one particular occasion, and found himself staring down rows upon rows of specially commissioned trick arrows --- explosives, grapples, EMP detonators. Various tools designed to enhance his abilities to the level of a superhuman or god. 

And when they’d flown out that day, Clint went in to fight with the air of a man slated for execution. 

But somehow he got by. He’d made an art of it by now. Getting by.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is a good bro.

Waking up.

Cold and sinister, like icy fingers trickling down his neck, his back. Incongruent against the bubble of captured warmth between the sheets. 

Clint summoned enough strength to peel open his eyes and squint at the digital clock on the bedside table. Glowing numbers swam in his line of sight. It was an ungodly hour, too late for sleep to reclaim him and too early for any sane person to begin their day.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, startling a little when the soles of his feet encountered downy fur. 

“Luck?” 

Lucky smiled up at him devotedly, tongue lolling out. 

A pleasant ache in Clint’s chest expanded and he reached down to tousle the dog’s scruff. 

“Good boy.” 

There was a long inhale at his side as Barney shifted his upper body to face away, deadened legs trailing in the bedsheets. Clint swallowed and paused to tug them back over him, smoothing with a palm and feeling eerily like a hospital nurse. 

“Let’s get some air, bud.”

Lucky jumped up immediately, panting in anticipation. Back in Bed-Stuy they’d made a tradition of climbing the steps to the apartment complex roof when Clint’s desperate attempts to sleep were finally abandoned. He’d beared witness to Clint’s prison workout routine --- pushups, squats, and perimeter jogs until collapsing from exhaustion --- and rare, but still recurrent, fits of sweeping melancholy. 

Lucky was practically a register away from support animal after all the shit Clint had put him through. 

Clint padded tentatively into the corridor with the dog trotting along at his heels. He made a few random turns until he spied a balcony door illuminated by a single sconce. He slid it open and Lucky squeezed through to join him. 

Immediately Clint found himself greeted with the ambience of a half-awake city. Rushing wind carried with it the tail-end of a car honking. If he leaned over far enough, he could see the illuminated figures of trees wrapped in fairy lights. 

The bitter cold sliced through him like a knife. 

“I feel like catching a cold right before Christmas is a bad omen.” 

Bruce stepped out to join Clint bundled up in a cable sweater. He rubbed a hand through his hair and the curls sprang back up in its wake. 

“Yeah, well. It’s not like things could get any worse.” Clint leaned his elbows on the barrier moodily, attempted to clear his mind. 

“What? Why?” Bruce’s eyebrows knit in concern. “What’s the matter?” 

“Uh… Have you got any siblings?”

Bruce shook his head. “This is about Barney, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah. I mean, growing up, I idolized him. He always knew what to do --- with Dad, the circus.”

Clint paused and glanced over, but Bruce only returned his gaze levelly with a look of complete focus. 

“I thought he was always gonna be there for me, that even if no one else was on my side I’d always have him there. But he, uh.”

Clint cleared his throat and splayed his palm wide against the black of the sky. 

“After the foster system didn’t work out too good for us, Barney and I tagged along with a circus troupe for some time. It was nothing classy, not like Ringling Brothers or anything. One of the carnies there, the Swordsman, he saw something in me. Some kind of potential I don’t know what. He enlisted one of the main acts, called Trick Shot, to teach me everything he knew about archery.”

A spark of realization appeared in Bruce’s dark eyes. The shade of them sent Clint hurtling back to the Swordsman. Jacques Duquesne. A formidable man with an open shirt tucked into his pants, black hair greased back from a proud forehead and a cruel smile. 

“They made sure I got good enough to perform. Fast.” 

Far below, a police car siren was switched on. 

“And Barney?” Bruce nudged carefully. 

“He didn’t really have the head for it. But he and the Swordsman grew real close. I should’ve suspected. I caught them one day, robbing the pay master on his way to the bank. Turns out they’d been pulling shit like that my entire stay at the circus.”

Lucky whined and Bruce absently offered him a hand to sniff. 

“I remember it was raining. Pouring, actually. I was laying there in that filth like a pig in the mud, the rain coming down on me from all angles. Jacques… he was madder than I’d ever made him before. Broke both my legs in one go.” 

Clint laughed and scrubbed his hand over his face. “When I saw Barney standing there, it was like a godsend. I knew that even with as bad of a mess as I’d gotten myself into, he’d be able to fix it. So I stretched out a hand to him, begged him to help me. And he just turned away.”

Bruce opened his mouth and paused, as though he were unsure of what to say. Clint waved him off.

“Aww, man. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. Point is he broke my trust when I needed him the most. And now that he’s back I don’t know how to react, don’t know where we stand.”

Clint carried on, voice small and conflicted. “My big brother, who taught me everything I know about hitting people and making them stay down. He’s all---”

He choked on his words and took a fortifying breath of icy air. Bruce waited, ever patient.

“He’s paralyzed from the waist down. While I’m over here resenting the hell out of him for stirring up all the-the bad memories. Being angry. Like I could scream.” 

That insidious thinking had slipped in and rooted itself firmly in the recesses of his mind:  
_Why did Barney have to be in a fucking wheelchair?_

He had no right. No right to resurface, so pitiful and low, and interrupt all the years of accumulated hatred that Clint had clung to like a lifeline. 

Bruce locked eyes with Clint; his eyes were so full of soft understanding. 

“I know a thing or two about being angry.” He quirked a smile at the private joke and drew the collar of his sweater higher up. “I also know that bottling it up is the worst thing you could do --- to let it control you and overtake your life, your human experience. But it can also be a tool, to help you examine situations and your reactions to them.” 

“The Other Guy teach you that?”

Bruce nodded, then stopped, looking embarrassed. “Did I really just say all of that to you?” 

“Yup. But thanks. It was helpful.” Then something occurred to Clint. “Hey, what are you doing up at this hour anyway?” 

“Oh, yeah.” Bruce shrugged noncommittally. “I was trying to meditate and heard the balcony door open. Thought I might check it out. We’re right outside my suite.”

“Really?” Clint hadn’t been entertaining any sense of direction when he’d sought this escape out. Just blindly walked where his feet carried him. “So your secret isn’t actually a giant bag of weed.” 

Bruce chuckled. “No, no. Although I can’t say I’ve never tried it.” 

Clint stared at him incredulously. “No way. Tony would never let you live this down if he knew.” 

“Good thing he doesn’t.” 

Bruce smiled at him, a peculiar mix of strained and genuine. “I’m going to go get some rest. You should too.” He grasped the balcony door and looked at Clint questioningly.

“You go on ahead. I’ll stay up a couple more minutes, let Lucky get some fresh air.” 

*

Clint did eventually retreat under the covers again, but he didn’t fall back asleep. Instead, he listened for signs of life beside him --- a snuffle, a snore --- until color bled back into the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have begun piling on the angst hehehe.  
> originally i had clint waxing poetic about the stars and stuff, but suddenly i wasn't sure if they're even visible in new york. whelp.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the avengers are good bros. clint and barney resolve things... apparently.

“Coffee?” 

Without looking up from her task, Natasha pointed in the direction of the coffee machine by the microwave. The gesture resulted in a waft of pungent acetone. On closer inspection, she was painting her fingernails a cheerful candy red. 

Clint stumbled toward it gratefully. “Thanks Nat.” He raised the steaming pot to his lips before the rest of his brain came online and he remembered where he was. This was not home. 

He pulled cautious sips of coffee from a ceramic mug, scalding and black. 

Barney was pulled up to the counter frowning intensely at a book of crossword puzzles. He looked up briefly but didn’t say anything. 

Bruce, who was tapping away on a laptop, paused briefly to offer Clint a hesitant smile. “Morning.” 

“Where’s Tony and Cap? And for that matter, where’s Thor?” His presence would be impossible to miss. 

Tony walked in brusquely with an air of barely self-contained excitement. He looked unfairly awake. 

“Thor would rather return to Asgard than partake in the human tradition of yuletide. As for Steve, well ---”

Steve arrived tugging distractedly at the cuffs of his suit. “Hmm?” His hair was parted neatly, the strands laying flat with gel. 

“Going somewhere in particular?” Bruce asked politely. 

“Steve decided to attend service, and I elected to go with him.” Natasha stood up and Clint noticed her short hair was coiffed and she had donned a shirtwaist dress to match Steve. They suited each other. 

“Traditional,” Barney inputted, before taking a sip of his own coffee. 

There was no accusation to it, but Clint looked at him sharply. He vaguely remembered being guided into wearing his sunday best, squirming on a wooden church bench for the better part of an hour during sermon. Afterwards everyone was expected to mingle, to make nice. Barney would attempt to make a break for it before Mom spun him around and put her hands on his shoulders, firmly. Most of the time Clint would be gripped by both his father’s rough hand and his mother’s soft one, swinging himself distractedly between them. Everything was fine, provided the two of them never spoke. 

Natasha and Steve left with arms linked. Before the lift doors closed, Clint caught onto a snippet of conversation. 

“--- from accounting. Laura? She’s cute.”

“The one with the lip piercing? Yeah… I’m not ready for that.” 

*

Clint briefly considered hiking over to the gym with his recurve and a quiver of standard arrows, but somehow he felt like it’d be betraying the spirit of the winter holidays.

He should check on his brother. 

Mind made up, Clint turned for the lounge but his feet dragged. 

_You’ve faced much worse than this as an Avenger. The Chitauri. Hydra._

He shook his head and strode on resolutely. Barney was rolling an ancient looking tennis ball across the floor to Lucky, murmuring a steady stream of “careful, careful” as though he might be able to understand. 

Clint stopped the ball’s rolling motion with a foot and chuckled when Lucky skidded to a halt in flabbergasted betrayal. 

“Sorry, bud.” He deposited a pat onto the sandy head. 

Barney put his hands on his knees and the smile froze on his face.

“What’s up?” 

Clint hummed, allowing himself a moment of sentimentality. _Love is for children_ , Natasha’s voice whispered in his mind. 

Sunlight streamed in from the floor-to-ceiling length windows. 

“D’you remember shooting beer bottles with nickels when we were kids? You’d line them all up in a row on the bed of Dad’s--- _the_ truck and teach me the best technique.”

“Yeah, I remember.” Barney mused, settling back. “Trick is to aim, breathe out, snap the wrist. It’s all about the snap of the wrist.”

“You taught me a lot of things.”

He snorted softly. “My little brother is so funny.” 

“No, really.” Clint insisted, locking eyes with him. Suddenly overcome with an insatiate resolve, he plowed on recklessly. 

Barney needed to know. He needed to understand. They couldn’t live this way any longer, fettered by the ghosts of the past. Not when there was so much at stake. Barney was capable of love, and being loved, and Clint had made up his mind to trust in that. 

“We had a good run of things, didn’t we?” 

“We did,” Barney admitted, accepting the olive branch without further ado.

“Alright then,” Clint said. “Great. You hungry?” 

*

“I can’t help feeling like we aren’t being festive enough,” Steve said as everyone dug vigorously into their Chinese takeout orders. He’d removed his suit jacket at some point and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. Outside, the sky was a commingling of slowly rolling purple and orange clouds. 

“How so?” Barney asked. After their afternoon resolution, he had become visibly more open. 

Steve looked to be collecting his thoughts. “I don’t know,” he settled on finally. 

“Maybe we should use this as a learning opportunity for you,” Tony wheedled. “Introduce you to the traditions of a real modern Christmas. Celine Dion, self-gifting, scented candles.” 

“It’s not too late,” Bruce remarked. “There’s still two days until Christmas. We could decorate the place, drink hot chocolate.” 

Natasha laughed and stirred her noodles with her chopsticks.

“What?” Bruce demanded in exasperation. 

“Let us just get drunk,” she proposed helpfully. “Off of eggnog and vodka.” 

“Hear, hear,” Tony raised his glass to her. “Well? What do you suggest?” 

Everything was quiet except for the rasp of plastic on plastic. Clint speared a morsel of chicken on a chopstick and secreted it under the table for Lucky to reach, which might’ve been discrete if it weren’t constructed entirely of glass.

“Huh?” He raised his head to find everyone looking at him expectantly. “What was the question?” He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously.

“Any suggestions for how we spend our Christmas?” Tony reiterated. 

“Ah… I’m not really that picky. Back in the circus, between Christmas and New Years Eve was always when our showings were the most packed.”

“That makes sense, I guess.” Natasha perked up. Clint realized that although she was familiar with his background as a carnie, he’d never appraised her on any particulars. He hadn’t considered that she might’ve been curious but hiding it out of respect for him until now. 

“Rapport was better, too. There wasn’t the financial strain like in off seasons, and the winter costumes for performers were pretty awesome, though I might be biased.”

“Definitely biased,” Barney smirked. “If the purple loincloth was bad enough, then the green tights…” He trailed off meaningfully. 

Tony seized onto his words with glee. “Tell me. Everything.” 

Barney opened his mouth to answer, then paused and looked at Clint. He nodded reassuringly. 

“Aww, man. Go for it. Cat’s out of the bag now.” 

Barney cleared his throat. “I was mostly set doing menial labor. Shoveling elephant manure --- which stinks something awful by the way --- and loading up props. But Clint, he was one of the main attractions of the show. They called him the ‘World’s Greatest Marksman.’”

“Wow.” Steve sounded genuinely impressed. 

“Mhmm. Usually he was wearing this sleeveless purple number with a cowl and tunic.” He gestured with his arms to fit the descriptions. “But for our winter exhibits, it got exchanged for a solid red and green costume. Looked ridiculous, but he loved it.”

“Well, yeah,” Clint replied, affronted. “It’s _mine_.”

He’d always loved his costumes. As ridiculous as they were, designing them was one of the few actions he’d had complete control over. It was a boyhood relic of an effort to remake himself into something fantastical, heroic. 

“Oh, Clint.” Natasha shook her head with a slowly spreading smile. 

“I can see it, actually,” Bruce said, coming to his defense. 

“Besides,” Clint continued. “It was the whole experience that made everything come together. The fireworks and the light up signs and all of us painted in white glitter to look like snow.” 

“It sounds beautiful,” Steve said, and his voice was faraway and clouded with nostalgia. 

“Sometimes I was able to catch a break and slip into the back of the crowd,” Barney recalled. “The connection Clint had with them, it was magnetic. Though I might be biased,” he added teasingly. 

“Shut up Barnes,” Clint threw his balled-up napkin at him, which Tony stretched out and caught, infuriatingly. The moment was broken. 

“Now that we’ve had such a charming heart to heart, shall we return to the matter at hand? Gentlemen, woman?”

The deflection didn’t offend Clint in any way. He knew Tony used sarcasm as a defensive mechanism. And he was drained from the unexpected trip down memory lane, to boot. 

“Shoot!” Clint smacked his forehead. “I forgot to feed Lucky.” He struggled to free his legs from underneath Natasha’s, which weighed him down like dumbbells. “His stuff is in my room. Be right back.” 

Natasha took pity on him and lifted her legs so he could stand and walk away. 

“C’mon, Luck.” 

“I liked the decorations in the main entrance,” Bruce supplied. 

“Pepper arranged it,” Tony waved a hand magnanimously. “Apparently it’s good for workplace morale.” 

“And for the ego,” Natasha arched an eyebrow. “Red and gold ornaments…?”

Lucky jumped up to follow Clint, fur mink sleek and ears pulled back. 

*

The curtains were drawn but Clint didn’t bother turning on the lights. He fumbled in the dark for his duffel bag, which was discovered only after stubbing a toe on it. He dragged it up onto the unmade bed and reached around for the dog chow, from some expensive bougie brand boasting all-real ingredients. 

“Alright, here you go,” Clint cooed as he shook some out into the metal bowl next to Lucky’s water. “You can’t just have pizza all the time, you know.” 

He sat back on his knees with a groan as the dog set upon it immediately. He moved to get up before spying a faint glow just within eyeshot. It couldn’t be anything of Clint’s; he didn’t own a mobile device. 

The blue glow persisted.

Clint moved to the other side of the room slowly and found the source of it to be through the fibrous canvas of Barney’s messenger bag. He knew Barney owned a phone because he had called Clint on it the first night. But that was an old flip phone which he preferred to keep in the pocket of his baggy suits. 

Heart fluttering in his throat, Clint snatched up the bag and felt along the inside for a seam. His fingers caught on a row of crudely punched office staples keeping two layers bound together to form a secret pocket. He gripped the fabric for traction and pulled harshly. It ripped in a jagged line and there was a thud as something substantial fell to the very bottom. 

A glossy smartphone. 

The screen was illuminated by a single text message alert, from an unknown number. 

**Coord: _____________**  
**Make sure he comes alone. Or you’ll lose more than your legs. -BC**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i miss christmas :(  
> also clint's circus background is so underrated. i'm too lazy to make up actual co-ordinates so it's just a line sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we meet trick shot. and natasha does something.

The most easily discernible emotion for Clint to identify, besides a heavy numbness blanketing him from the shoulders down, was bitter hilarity. The second was shame. 

He’d spent the majority of his life reacting to circumstances as they happened --- surviving, adapting, _evolving_ \--- he was scrappy, he fought dirty, and when he couldn’t fight, he outlasted, damnit, because sometimes there was nothing a body could do but curl up and absorb the hits as best as possible. 

Clint knew the golden rule: don’t expect anything. 

And for years he followed it religiously. Time and time again, that mantra had reiterated itself as the one constant he could rely on. 

Dad’s words spoke of family and protection, but his fists spelled out pain. Mom promised comfort, but she was all indifference and propriety. Numerous fosterers opened their homes in flourishes of goodwill, but their saintly patience was quick to wear thin. Even the circus, for all of its illicit thrill, was in the end nothing more than a soap bubble, fragile and empty. 

There was no working room, no way around it. You couldn’t complain or or deny or bargain, because bargaining with God was a losing game. It was the way things were meant to be.

And brothers? They were meant to betray. 

But somewhere between Tony’s invitation and now Clint had forgotten himself. He’d allowed himself to ride the holiday spirit straight into an unrealistic daydream where Barney, Lucky, the team, and himself could all function. Maybe even Kate, if she spared a moment for him. 

Clint hadn’t wanted to admit it, but events were set in motion the moment he’d laid eyes on Barney again, reformed and mellowed down. He was never going to abandon him there on the curbside despite his threats, not with the seed of hope planted. 

He had been arrogant. To think that he could take control of his life, that he could offer a helping hand. Barney took advantage of this belief only too easily. 

Now Clint had learned his lesson. In fact, he could admit things made more sense now. Why else would Barney have any reason to return, after the finality of that fateful day in the mud and rain, if not for an ulterior motivation?

“What mess have you got yourself into this time?” 

Clint whispered through the inky black space of the air above the bed. Barney’s innocuously sleeping form continued to rise steadily up and down gently. Besides that faint movement he didn’t stir. He looked, for all intents and purposes, completely at peace. 

Clint, on the other hand, found himself vibrating with a pent up energy, his nerves wired up. His shirt clung to his back with cold sweat. 

There was only one person the initials **BC** could belong to. He was sure of it. 

*

Stealing the quinjet was laughably easy.

First, Clint knicked one of Tony’s state-of-the-art motorcycles from his enormous personal garage. 

He was geared up in his usual lightweight armor, the right sleeve extending to his wrist and his left arm bare except for the presence of a protective arm guard. The bow and a fresh quiver he carried on his back. 

He treated it like any other infiltration mission he’d ever done, walking relaxedly through S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters and nodding back at a worshipful associate from R & D, or statistics, fellow agents. 

While he made his way determinedly across the launch pad, freezing wind buffeted against him as if to deter him from his goal. 

Night crew aircraft fuelers and ramp staff went about their work bundled up in bright yellow parkas to match their hard hats. Not a single one of them stopped in suspicion when Clint sat in the pilot’s seat, switched on the controls, and guided the quinjet upwards. 

The guilt came to him full-force, like a punch to the gut. At such a high altitude, the bite of the cold could be felt even on the inside of the carrier, but Clint ignored it. He was used to being cold, and it wouldn’t be where he was currently headed.

The Greek Isles. 

Barney would remain safe at Stark Tower, and Clint would finish this once and for all. 

So he slipped away, quite literally, like a thief in the night. 

*

Despite the quinjet’s speed, Clint didn’t reach his destination until early morning. From the cockpit, he found himself staring down a seemingly uninhabited island, with a long stretch of painfully white sand fading into thick foliage. 

The roar of the aircraft as it broke through the air died down to a whirring noise as he decelerated the engine rotors. The wings tucked in slightly and its back folded down into a ramp as he landed and stepped out. 

Clint, blinking in the glare of the sun, was met by four glowering figures in suede jackets. One of them pointed a gun at him, then pointed it into the tangle of greenery. 

“You’re to come with us.” 

“What are you, my personal escorts? This a vacation?” 

Clint bounced on the balls of his feet, but they only waited pointedly for him to drop the act. He sighed and trudged forward. The sound of clear tropical waves lapping the shore grew dimmer and dimmer until the path cleared out to reveal an aging steel and concrete building. 

Clint allowed his eyes to follow the length of it all the way to the crumbling top, where a few birds nested silently, mostly to distract himself from the familiar face smiling warmly at him at its base. 

“Clint,” the spector greeted. “It’s been such a long time since I last saw you, my boy. You’ve certainly done well for yourself, no doubt about it.” 

“Trick Shot,” Clint returned hollowly. He’d hoped against all hope the unknown caller wasn’t him, but since when had lady luck been in his favor?

Buck Chisholm sighed, put-upon. “Stage-names? It’s been a while since I went by that moniker, but it sure brings back fond memories.” 

He had always been a beefy man with fleshy lips, but now sported the belly of an aging habitual drinker as well. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t put up more of a fuss. You always were a spirited one.” 

Clint shifted his feet in a wider stance and took in the loose circle of henchmen. “Cut the crap, Chisholm. We both know all of this ---” he threw out an arm loosely “--- is just ceremonial. Else I would’ve put an arrow through your neck already.” 

Chisholm’s eyes twinkled. “Same old, same old, kid.” 

Clint stared at him, mind racing. The Swordmaster, while grueling, had always been easy to predict. He burned cold, regarded Clint with the same thinly-veiled disdain he held for the other circus workers, except perhaps Barney, for his skills at money laundering. Everything was about profit to him. 

Trick Shot on the other hand… 

“How do you like my dig?” Chisholm appraised the failing architecture lovingly. “Now, I know you were never too academically inclined --- which, by the way, you should never feel embarrassed for, with me --- but I’ve got a bit of a history lesson for you.”

Clint crossed his arms over his chest. A slight warm breeze picked up, and kernels of sand raced over the dirt. Whenever Chisholm had had a loquacious spout in the past, usually after self-medicating with a pack of beers, it was best to let it run its full course. 

“This place here used to be a clandestine, far-removed prison. Unfortunately, whoever designed the whole venture didn’t take sustainability into account. When the coal ran out, this facility was abandoned. Now all that remains are reinforcements corroded by time.” 

He leaned over and plucked a block of concrete from the steps, inspecting its dusty character. It was clear that he was enjoying the attention; basking in it, even. 

“What do you want. In exchange for Barney’s safety.” 

Despite Chisholm’s attempt to project an image of vulnerability, Clint could perceive the true danger of the man before him. S.H.I.E.L.D. had been gathering intel on his exploits for some time now. In short, he had his fingers in a lot of pies. One wrong move and Barney would be forced to go underground permanently. He’d never be able to stop running. 

“Hmmm.” Chisholm put a finger to his lips placidly. “Barney Barton. It was so hard on me, putting that bullet in his back. But he never really measured up.” 

There was an awful rushing sound in Clint’s head and his vision tinted red. The whole world seemed to turn on its axis. Lightning quick, he nocked an arrow and stepped forward unsteadily, trembling. 

“You _fucking_ \---!”

The guards pointed their guns reflexively at him as the birds on the roof exploded away at the outburst. Chisholm merely laughed and waved for them to stand down. 

“So you see, it’s in everyone’s best interest if you return to me; give up this foolish play acting as some kind of a hero. Because you aren’t one.”

“Like hell he isn’t!”

A singing clang resounded in the air as Steve’s vibranium shield smacked the suede-clad lackeys off their feet. He called it back to his arm with experienced surety, where it glinted in the naked sun. For an alarming, dizzying second, Clint thought he was experiencing what might be a particularly vivid fever dream.

Then Natasha sailed over the undergrowth with both pistols unholstered, Tony hovering just  
behind in his Iron Man suit.

Chisholm was undeterred, only looking more delighted at the sudden turnup.

“Captain America, Black Widow, _and_ Iron Man? I’m honored. Truly.” 

He pushed off from the building’s side and placed a hand on his chest. 

“Unfortunately, as Clint is already more than fully aware, I’m untouchable. I know all about S.H.I.E.L.D.'s precious intelligence gathering, their spies and their hacks. Killing me now would undo a decade’s worth of hard work. I’m sure you are familiar with the phrase ‘if a head is cut off, two more shall take its place.’” 

Buck Chisholm was affiliated with Hydra. The situation was infinitely more difficult than Clint could’ve imagined. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Tony quipped. His repulsors glowed in warning and he set his feet down between the still groaning lackeys on the ground. 

Chisholm kept up the irksome half-smile. “Such loyalty from your friends, my boy! If only you’d shown me the same loyalty.”

Clint squinted down the line of sight on his arrow and scoffed. “For what?” 

His words immediately seemed to strike a nerve, as Chisholm staggered backwards, incredulous. 

His mouth worked uselessly. 

“For --- heavens, boy! I took you in when you were nothing more than orphan white trash, taught you how to live life by the way of the arrow. When the Swordmaster and your own older brother disavowed you, left you beaten and caked in the muck and mire with two broken legs, I was the one who spoke for you. I brought you up into the hitman profession like my own son. _I made you_. You owe me, kid!” 

He panted from the exertion of his tirade, the vein on his temple plainly visible. 

“Clint doesn’t owe you anything,” Natasha said, with a confidence Clint himself struggled to feel. 

Everything was confused and muddled in his head. He couldn’t think. The hand drawing back the string on his bow shook. 

In contrast, the menacing lines of her body were completely straight as she touched the barrel of a Glock 27 to Chisholm’s forehead and executed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why does this whole sequence remind me of when silva met bond on his deserted island?  
> also i guess this means the avengers are missing out on celebrating christmas eve.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the aftermath, and going back to SHIELD.

Some sort of self-preservation began to seep into Clint’s pores and he allowed himself to fall back into it, a familiar numb headspace. On autopilot, he observed Natasha relaying the scene to a clean-up crew through her inner-ear comm. Steve shuffled his shoes in the dusty ground, seemingly discomfited by the scattering of incapacitated men, which was an amusing thought considering he was responsible for their injuries. 

Tony’s silhouette stopped directly in front of Clint, blocking out a halo in the shape of his bulky suit. The face guard slid back to reveal his piercing eyes, face visibly worried for once. 

“You okay there, Barton? I hope you’re not planning on shooting me anytime soon.”

Clint blinked rapidly and looked down at his arm, trembling with exertion as it pulled the bowstring back. His other arm felt locked into position, perfectly straight and parallel to the still nocked arrow he’d neglected to fire the entire time. It lined up almost perfectly with Tony’s arc reactor. 

Even though the afternoon was proving to be fairly warm, as December in Greece tended to be by day, there was a chilliness Clint couldn’t seem to escape. He felt feverish with it. 

With difficulty Clint forced his limbs into a relaxed state, returning the un-loosed arrow to his quiver and holding the bow limply at his side. Tony appeared to be appeased by this and turned away with a final, consolatory grip to his shoulder. 

Jarvis directed Tony’s aircraft out of its concealment in the tangled forest and to their location. It was similar in design to the quinjet Clint had purloined from S.H.I.E.L.D, but a lot more sleek, completely silent in touching down in front of the crumbling prison. 

Tony was rambling to fill the awkward silence of lingering adrenaline. It fell flat, but the gesture was well-meaning enough. 

“--- fully functional hangar with two prototype high-speed aerial shuttles. Weapons, shields, and an air speed of Mach-8, for those of us who can’t fly. You can even go to space. Well, probably.” 

Natasha noticed Clint was still rooted to the spot and turned back for him, placing a steadying hand on his back as though he were injured and guiding him to Tony’s transport.

“Wh-what --- the quinjet. It’s still on the beach,” he pushed out through numb lips. 

There was no reproach that he could see from her, no recrimination for stealing S.H.I.E.L.D. resources. He felt himself withering under all the undeserved pity. 

“Some of our own will collect it later. Fury’s calling us in for a debriefing, and to discuss damage control. You may have to answer some personal questions.” 

Natasha gave Clint an apologetic look as he nodded, attempting to digest everything.

_Damage control._

This was his doing. 

Sure, Clint couldn’t have been aware of the exact events that transpired to result in Barney’s crippling. But he had been the intended target. Somehow, despite spending over a decade apart from each other, harm had still found its way to Barney in the form of collateral damage. And now, with the cold-blooded dispatching of Chisholm serving as a very pointed message of defiance to Hydra, Barney’s entire life was in jeopardy. 

Clint was unmoved in his anger towards Barney, for his stupidity in getting tangled up with Chisholm of all people, and by extension, Hydra. But he was also angry at himself, at the utter shithole that was his life. 

He sat down heavily, looking up and then instantly regretting it when he met Steve’s perceptive gaze. The anger was most easy to register, along with something unnamable. No, not unnamable, a melange of emotions Clint was too much of a coward to face, and so simply refused to acknowledge. 

Anger was one thing. It was familiar, uncomplicated. Disappointment and betrayal, on the other hand… 

Steve Rogers --- _Captain America_ \--- was a national poster boy. He was all apple pie and fireworks and earnest fucking camaraderie. But in this moment, the look on his face was alien and devastating. 

“What on God’s green earth were you thinking coming out here alone? The Avengers --- all of us, the way we operate is as a team, and that means trusting each other enough to have our backs and face threats: together. Because if we don’t, then what’s the point?” 

Steve looked like he wanted to say more, but then shook his head and sighed wearily. 

Natasha kneeled down until she was at eye-level with Clint, staying relentlessly patient until he looked back at her.

“Clint. We’re not angry with you. Just worried.” 

“Sorry.” 

The apology lingered in the space of the carrier hollow, empty. Clint wanted to take it back and start over, but he’d never been particularly well-spoken in the first place. 

Clint slumped over further, catching sight of Natasha’s re-holstered pistols. They looked innocuous at present, just chunky tools. One of the two, he couldn’t recall which, now had only eight rounds. The ninth bullet would be embedded in Chisholm’s still cooling carcass back on the abandoned island. 

There was a churning sensation threatening to bubble up out of Clint’s throat. Nausea. He took slow, controlled breaths to fight it, swallowing convulsively. That seemed to help, as did burying his face in his arms to block out excess stimuli. 

Thankfully no one attempted to speak to him the entire ride back. 

*

The return trip was made much quicker thanks to Tony’s aircraft, and New York was reached by late afternoon. On another occasion, Tony might have taken the opportunity to gloat about the superiority of Stark technology over standard S.H.I.E.L.D. equipage. Clint could almost see the effort it took for him to censor his words, and it inspired a fresh wave of resentment in him. 

Now the launch pad’s stadium lights were turned off, and the hangar doors had been rolled open to reveal rows of formidable F-35 Lightning multi-role fighters. 

The whole setting was very industrial and grey in harsh daylight.

People --- security, marshallers, fellow agents --- worked briskly despite the cold, their breaths fogging the air. They were pointedly focused on their own tasks in a way that seemed to call even more attention to the conspicuousness of four Avengers gathered together, somehow. Clint knew professionalism could not outweigh human curiosity, though; he noticed the furtive glances and discreet whispers. 

There would certainly be speculation about what sort of intergalactic threat Earth’s mightiest heroes had been called upon to overcome this time. 

Clint had the overwhelming urge to grind himself down into dust in the cement. Only he would’ve had the nerve to reduce the _Avengers_ to errand runners, babysitters, witnesses to the world’s slowest human implosion.

Chisholm’s persuasive voice, still fresh and undead: _give up this foolish play acting as some kind of a hero. Because you aren’t one._

Clint shook his head violently. When his vision cleared, he saw that Bruce and Fury were waiting for them. His anxiety spiked; it couldn’t bode well that the colonel had decided to personally escort them inside. 

Sneaking a glance at Fury revealed nothing. He looked just as impenetrable as always, in a new leather trench lined with thick black fur. 

“Director,” Steve nodded respectfully. 

“Well, I suppose I don’t have to tell you that we have a situation on our hands.” Fury took special care to glower at each of them in turn, ending with a meaningful glance in Clint’s direction. “And doctor, thank you for waiting so long.”

Bruce shrugged his shoulders, shivering in the cold. 

“Thanks for asking so nicely. So, uh… are we having that meeting now?” 

“Yes.” Fury turned on his heel and folded his hands behind his back, leading everyone into the entrance hall.

Some personnel in corporate attire passed by or rode the escalators to a higher level. It was very quiet and spacious, with sunlight streaming in to illuminate the floor in wide panels of light. At the center stood the giant metal S.H.I.E.L.D. logo depicting a cresting bird. As was customary of the organization, there were no festive decorations to be found of any kind, just a sterile calm. 

Normally Clint enjoyed this sight, when he and Natasha strode in with a sense of satisfaction for a job well done and received warm regards from Coulson. Now he felt like he was back at the foster home, being brought in for another disobedience complaint.

“Where’s Barney?” 

Fury stopped for a moment, but didn’t turn around. “We’ll get to that, Agent. Come inside.” 

In the conference room were Coulson and Hill. Coulson stood up immediately, his usually impeccable suit rumpled.

“Romanov, Barton,” he said breathlessly. 

“We’re okay sir,” Natasha reassured him. 

Coulson sat but continued to look steadily at them with a crease between his eyebrows. Clint could feel his gaze, and knew he hoped to lock eyes in order to better ascertain Clint’s status. Instead, Clint stepped around the length of the mahogany table with his bow still clenched in one hand, running his fingers over the office supplies and files at the back of the room. Maria twitched but didn’t do anything to deter him. 

There was a pensive rustling as the rest of the Avengers sat in rolling desk chairs around the three table sides not occupied by Fury, Coulson, and Hill. 

Fury remained standing, leaning against a shelf and spreading his hands imperiously. 

“So,” he said. “Let’s talk.” 

Coulson shifted, so far removed from his usual serene demeanor. “Before we begin, I just want to add that this isn’t an interrogation.” 

“But unfortunately, Agent Barton,” Hill looked up from her pad and addressed Clint in the corner reluctantly, “you piloted a S.H.I.E.L.D. hangar six quinjet for an unauthorized mission.” 

“And stole my motorcycle,” Tony added, stepping out of his Iron Man suit in a navy t-shirt and lounge pants. “No hard feelings, though.” 

“We’ve stored your motorcycle in the underground parking garage,” Hill said, and he offered her a thumbs up. 

Clint swallowed with difficulty. It felt as though his throat were closing off. His palms were sweating, making his grip on the handle of his bow slick. He was both incredibly exhausted and raw, like the live end of a wire. He swung an open cabinet door behind him shut slowly, and then remained fixed there.

“Clint,” Steve called firmly. “C’mon. We’ve got to talk about this as a team.” 

Clint shuffled over to the chair left empty between Steve and Natasha, dropped his bow onto the table with a clatter that made him wince. Fury took that as his signal to continue speaking. 

“So what I want to know is just how and _why_ the Avengers have taken it upon themselves to assassinate this man.” 

Maria swiped up the holographic image of Chisholm from her pad to the center of the table. 

Bruce squinted his eyes behind his glasses.

“Buck… Chisholm? You guys killed somebody?” He looked alarmed. 

“Yes,” Natasha said, visibly steeling herself. 

“Why, may I ask?” A dangerous note had entered Fury’s voice. 

She met his gaze unblinkingly. “I killed him. He was posing a threat to a member of our team.” 

“To Barton?” Coulson leaned forward, his frown lines deepening. 

Natasha nodded grimly. 

“And this decision was made by your own judgement,” Fury attempted to comprehend. 

“Romanov made the call, sir,” Steve asserted. “But any one of us would have done the same.” 

Clint looked up sharply and was met by a soft smile from Steve. It seemed he was forgiven then. 

“Is he important or something? Buck Chisholm, I mean.” Bruce looked around for clarification but faltered when he was offered no assistance. 

“He first appeared on our radar working as a freelance mercenary, then for running an extortion racket. Later, he was absorbed into HYDRA’s ranks.” 

“Thank you for the summary Hill,” Fury nodded at her. “What I can’t wrap my head around is why Chisholm himself would risk vulnerability by issuing an invitation to you on an abandoned island with minimal protection. Any takers?” 

Clint sucked in a breath, holding it in until he was lightheaded. He forced himself to speak before cowardice got the better of him. 

“I know why. Sir.” 

He knew the others had their attention on him now, but Clint only saw Coulson’s face as it seemed to become impossibly sadder. He remained as trusting and open as ever, waiting patiently for Clint to give his own rationale. 

“I… have a bad feeling about where this is going.” Tony crossed his arms over his chest. 

Fury shot him a withering look before refocusing. “By all means, continue, Special Agent Barton.” 

Natasha put a hand on Clint’s arm reassuringly. He hated himself for the pinched, worried expression on her face. It was hard to decide who to address. Bruce? Steve? Phil? Eventually he only looked ahead at Fury, resolutely, and resolved to treat the situation like a typical debriefing. 

“What Agent Hill said is all correct, sir. But before he got into large-scale crime, Chisholm went by the stage name Trick Shot.” 

Bruce straightened up with a noise of exclamation, subsiding when everyone turned to look at him in confusion. 

“Trick Shot! He’s the man who taught you archery.” 

“At the circus.” Natasha didn’t phrase it as a question; she’d put two and two together. 

Coulson opened up a folder and scanned its contents with precision. “Carson’s Carnival of Travelling Wonders. Disbanded in 1999. You told us at recruitment that’s where you gained your chief asset. But you never informed us about your past affiliation with Chisholm, or that he was your mentor.” 

“I hope you have a good reason for that,” Fury looked at Clint pointedly with his single eye. 

The weight of everyone’s eyes on Clint was staggering. Accusatory. He wanted to shimmy under the table and cage himself in all their legs, jump up to remove a ceiling tile and crawl alongside the filthy pipes. 

He shrugged, ducking his head. “Dunno. Stupid.” 

“Clint…” Natasha cautioned. 

He opened his mouth, attempted to will the words to come naturally. He didn’t want to be here; he didn’t want to do this.

“I didn’t mention --- him --- because when I joined up with S.H.I.E.L.D. I made up my mind to start things fresh. I thought to myself that I would consider him dead. And then I buried him in my mind.” 

Clint looked up, scanned the room for reactions. Tony had tilted his chair to lean backwards as much as possible without losing balance. Somehow the predictability of that action comforted him. 

“Aww, man. I-I like what I do, using a bow and arrow. I just don’t like being reminded of how I learned it or what I used to do with it.”

There was a long pause. Clint risked looking up, saw Chisholm’s image projected in the center of the table, and winced. Coulson looked at him fondly and smoothed his folder closed with finality.

“Barton, you can expect us to talk about this at length at a later point. For now I think it’s best for us to have a recess.”

He looked to Fury for confirmation and received an acknowledging hand wave. The Director didn’t speak but it was a clear dismissal. Maria killed the hologram, which seemed to snap everyone out of whatever daze they’d been in.

“Wait,” Clint said haltingly. “My brother, Barnes, where is he? Oh god --- Chisholm’s dead, he isn’t safe, we have to move him from the tower ---”

“Barney showed us the text message with the co-ordinates as soon as he noticed you were gone.” Bruce smiled faintly. “‘Cause, um, Lucky was just going ballistic.” 

“Yes,” Natasha agreed. “Then he requested immediate refuge before insisting that we kill Chisholm --- no matter the circumstance.”

Clint was thrown. “He said that? But he-he must’ve known what that would mean, that now he has to run away with his fucking tail between his legs. I don’t even know if S.H.I.E.L.D. is enough to protect him.” 

Fury steepled his fingers and glowered. “You leave that for us to decide, Agent Barton. We’ve secured a safehouse for him and he’s en route at this very moment.”

Coulson nodded reassuringly. “Private transport. Very remote. He’ll be safe.” Then he grimaced minutely. “It might be best not to attempt contact with him.” 

Despite the logic of that statement, it still hurt. 

“Yes sir, I understand.” 

Tony cleared his throat restlessly. 

Steve gave a world-weary sigh before reaching out to pour a glass of water from a perspiring pitcher. He nudged it over quietly and left it there like a peace offering when Clint’s fingers refused to move to take it up. Instead he stared blankly at where sunlight glinted around the rim. 

The events in Greece came rushing back to the forefront of his mind again, searing onto the backs of his eyeballs. The memories replayed with a kind of garish filter --- clamoring birds, poisonous words, a gunshot, the thud of something heavy falling. Clint had refused to scrutinize Buck Chisholm’s body, but he had seen the rotund figure, laid out to stare unseeingly at the limpid sky. 

Distantly, Clint could feel someone shaking him by the shoulders, calling him in a worried voice. Focusing on it was like breaking to the surface of a pool. 

“Barton. Clint, talk to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might be a little late to say that the title of this fic is taken from the song Drunk In LA, by Beach House. Also - hnnnnngggh online school tomorrow. i just get so nervous about having to do presentations and stuff on video. and in real life too, actually.

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically me trying to give MCU Hawkeye back his angsty comic past lol.


End file.
